AI The door swung inward, not entirely of its own volition, but held open just enough to frame a figure that stole the meagre breath from Aurora Carter’s lungs. Lucien Moreau. Here. In the cramped entryway of her flat above Silas’s Bar. The faint, lingering scent of fried onions and cheap lager from downstairs seemed to recoil from the immaculate, charcoal-grey wool of his tailored suit.
His eyes, one amber, the other a void-like black, swept over her in a single, unhurried appraisal. They landed on the half-dismantled kettle lying on the floor beside a scattering of tools, then tracked back up her stained jeans and the smudge of grease on her cheek. A faint, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips was the only outward sign he registered her dishevelled state.
"Aurora," he said, his voice the low rumble of distant thunder, threaded with the faint, melodious lilt of Marseille. "A pleasure."
"Lucien." The name tasted like ash on her tongue. She forced her hands, which had begun to clench into fists, into the pockets of her jeans. "You’re a long way from Mayfair."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt impossibly loud over the muffled, tinny bass from the pub below. He didn’t wait for an invitation, moving with a fluid grace that was almost predatory. Even the air around him seemed to shimmer, charged with an energy that put her teeth on edge.
"And you are a long way from... anywhere predictable ," he replied, his gaze finally settling on the chaotic array of books and papers piled precariously on her small kitchen table. "Still wrestling with arcane texts, I see. Or have you branched out into domestic appliance repair?"
His tone was smooth, laced with amusement, but beneath it pulsed something else. A warning? A threat? With Lucien, it was always difficult to tell. She ignored the jab at her surroundings, at her life. She had chosen this. This relative obscurity over the gilded cages he inhabited. Or perhaps, she'd fled one cage only to land above another.
"What do you want, Luc?" She kept her voice level, cool. Years of navigating her father’s courtroom and the London underworld had honed her composure, but his presence frayed her edges like cheap silk . The childhood crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed infinitesimally, a phantom reminder of a time when danger felt more concrete, less... nuanced.
He stopped before the table, his ivory-handled cane tapping softly against the worn linoleum. He didn’t touch anything, but his presence seemed to impose itself on the room, pushing back the shadows and the comforting scent of her meagre existence.
"Direct as always," he mused, running a gloved finger along the spine of a leather-bound tome she’d recently acquired. "A quality I once admired. Perhaps I still do." He looked directly at her, his heterochromatic eyes pinning her in place. "Rumours have a way of travelling, even to those of us who prefer to remain detached from the gutter's gossip."
"Rumours about what?" She met his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. His power was palpable, a dark, intoxicating current that had drawn her in once before, foolishly.
"About an incident. A rather unpleasant entanglement with certain individuals who have a… *disdain * for your employer's more dubious ventures." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress delivered more than just chow mein last week."
Her stomach clenched. She’d delivered a package for Cheung, a discreet one, to a location vaguely reminiscent of an abandoned warehouse district on the city’s periphery. She’d been paid handsomely, asked no questions, and tried to forget the unsettling silence of the drop-off point. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you ?" He took a step closer, and the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something deeper, elemental, filled the small space. "A shipment went missing. Or rather, it was intercepted. Viciously. The men involved were... *enthusiastic *. Far too enthusiastic for mere thieves. Their methods suggest they were testing the waters. Or perhaps, ensuring a message was delivered."
He was speaking in riddles, but the weight of his words was undeniable. Cheung's 'dubious ventures' might have finally caught up with one of his delivery girls. And Lucien, the fixer who dealt in secrets and shadows, somehow knew about it already.
"And *you're * here because?" She pushed out the question, her voice tight. This was his scene. His game. He traded in information, in threats, in the invisible strings that manipulated the city’s underbelly.
"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a near purr, "the individuals who intercepted that particular delivery are not... discerning. They operate with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. And they have a penchant for collateral damage. Your name, Aurora, has been mentioned."
A cold dread began to unfurl in her chest, battling the residual shock of his appearance. She hadn't been stupid. She knew Cheung played in dangerous waters, but she'd thought herself insulated. Just a hired hand, unnoticed.
"They know I delivered it?"
"They know *you * were the last one to touch it before it vanished." He tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. "And these particular gentlemen have a rather unpleasant way of… persuading people to reveal what they know. Or, failing that, making an example of them."
She swallowed, the dryness in her throat suddenly overwhelming. The crescent scar on her wrist felt phantomly warm. Evan’s volatile temper, the fear that had driven her from Cardiff, felt quaintly distant compared to the imminent, nameless threat Lucien was painting .
"And *you * care because?" She forced herself to ask, the historian in her, the analyst, fighting against the rising tide of primal fear. Why would Lucien Moreau, the impeccable fixer, warn her? Unless…
He held her gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the distant groan of the pub closing down and the drip of a leaky tap somewhere deeper in the building. His left eye, the amber one, seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher – regret, perhaps ? Or a calculated assessment of her value.
"Let's just say," he finally murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching again, "that certain parties are beginning to take an interest in your… unique skill set. Your knack for finding things. Your peculiar resilience. Your ability to navigate spaces others deem impenetrable."
He took another slow step towards her, closing the remaining distance until he stood mere inches away. The air crackled, thick with unspoken history, with the potent, forbidden allure that still snagged at her. She could smell the faint scent of ink on his dark suit, understand the meticulous care he put into every aspect of his persona, and it was terrifyingly seductive.
"They believe you possess knowledge you shouldn't. Or, perhaps," he whispered, his gaze dropping momentarily to the smudge of grease on her cheek, "they believe you are simply… *available *. A loose end. And loose ends, Aurora, must be tied off."
His hand, clad in fine black leather, rose slowly . She instinctively flinched, bracing for a blow, a rough grab. But his fingers merely reached out, gently brushing the grease smudge from her skin. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt through her, warm and electric , banishing the last vestiges of her professional coolness.
"You never were one for loose ends, were you ?" he murmured, his thumb lingering just below her jawline . "Always so neat. So… contained." His eyes met hers again, and this time, the calculated assessment was overlaid with something far more dangerous. Attraction. Possession. "They will come for you , Aurora. Soon. And when they do, running won't be an option. Not like last time."
Her breath hitched. *Not like last time.* The implication was clear. He knew about Evan. He knew about her flight. And he knew these new hunters wouldn't be as easily outrun.
His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, a possessive caress that sent a shiver down her spine, a traitorous tremor that had nothing to do with fear. "Therefore," he continued softly , his voice dropping to a husky whisper , his eyes devouring hers, "you have two choices. You can wait for them to find you and make a mess. Or, you can come with me. I can offer… protection. For a price, of course."
The silence that followed was deafening , broken only by the distinct sound of a heavy boot striking metal somewhere on the street below, followed by a gruff shout. Then another, closer. Too close.
Lucien’s head snapped towards the sound, his eyes hardening, the soft predatory gaze replaced by something sharp, urgent. His hand retracted from her face, and he took a swift, decisive step back, his cane suddenly in his grip, blade glinting infinitesimally in the dim light.
“It would seem,” he said, his voice losing its soft purr and gaining a brutal edge, “that your ‘loose end’ has presented itself rather prematurely.”
Before Rory could even process his words or fully pull back from the dangerous intimacy they had shared, the heavy thud of multiple footsteps pounded up the outside stairs, accompanied by the guttural, unmistakable sounds of men breaking down a door. Her door.